Merry not Christmas
by Oubliette14
Summary: Killian Jones has spent the last five years avoiding everything to do with Christmas; a veritable Grinch. Though perhaps Ebenezer Scrooge is more fitting; he's not out to ruin Christmas, he simply prefers to pretend that it doesn't exist. So what happens when he takes a tumble on the mountainside and is stuck for the holiday, cooped up in a small cabin with his saviour, Emma Swan?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I am apparent incapable of writing anything short, so this "one-shot" will contain five chapters posted over the next several days. Enjoy my darlings! P.S. The final chapter will be rated M. ;)

* * *

Rotating blades whir loudly, the mechanical— _thwump thwump thwump —_ beating in time with his heart as Killian sits on the metal bench of the tilting helicopter, bending to tighten the bindings on his skis with his right hand, double-checking that they're secure before looping the straps of his pack over his shoulders and pulling down his tinted goggles.

Standing and shuffling toward the open door of the aircraft, he straps a ski pole into the grip of his prosthetic left hand. It had been a challenge at first, picking up skiing again without the physical grasp of a pole in each hand, but he'd been nothing if not determined.

 _He's lost a lot. No way in hell was he going to lose this too._

Picking up the other pole, he steadies himself and looks out over the untouched back country of the breathtaking mountain range, breathing in the sharp scent of pine and frigid winter air as the helicopter circles closer to his drop-off point.

The sky is clear, a bright robin's egg blue, almost dark in contrast to the blinding white of the glittering snow below.

He turns and nods at the pilot, and the helicopter drops closer to the mountain top. The floor pitches beneath his feet, and with a whoop of joy, he bends his knees and drops from the aircraft to the powdery snow below.

There's nothing quite like it; the exhilaration of carving your way down the mountainside, the icy-hot sting of wind whipping your cheeks, trees and rock rushing past you in a blur as your thighs burn and everything focuses in on the shift of your knees and the tilt of your hips, balance and power as your skis glide effortlessly over the snow, carrying you in a heart-pounding hurtle downwards.

It takes his mind off everything and forces him into the moment, forces him to focus solely on the obstacles in his path; nothing existing beyond what is immediately in front of him. It pushes the past away and temporarily erases the memory of that horrific night from just over five years ago—the crash and screech of twisting metal, crumpling around him and her, mostly her, burning rubber, acrid smoke and blood, so much blood. She died on impact, they'd told him. His Milah hadn't suffered, they'd promised. He's lucky he didn't lose his whole arm, they'd consoled, as if being a little less of a cripple were some much sought after consolation prize.

That's why he's up here, in the middle of bloody nowhere. It's an escape. It's the only way he knows how to make it through the Christmas season without drinking himself half to death.

His older brother, Liam, still, after all these years, argues that he shouldn't spend the holiday alone, that he should be around family; his sister-in-law and his nephew, but Killian has no interest in sitting around and celebrating or partaking in holiday cheer. No, all he wants to do is ski until his legs quake with the exertion of it, until he's so bloody knackered that he falls into bed and sleeps dreamlessly until sunrise.

So he skis, usually traveling to a new section of the mountain range every year, easily bored with the terrain he sees day in and day out working search and rescue and as a part-time ski instructor. It's not cheap, renting out mountain accommodations for the peak of the Christmas season, but then he figures that a long night in a bar followed by a trip to the emergency room to have his stomach pumped probably isn't either.

At least this way the only harm he's doing is to his bank account.

At least that's supposed to be the case.

Turns out it isn't.

He's halfway down the mountain, slowing his pace, enjoying the afternoon sun when the winds unexpectedly start to shift and within minutes, the blue sky is gone, dark grey snow clouds blowing in to obscure the sun.

The temperature drops drastically as the snow starts to fall, and though it's only mid-afternoon, it feels like the darkness of night is already closing in around him.

He skis a little harder, a little faster, perhaps not as cautiously as he should, confident that he can make it down the mountain and back to the snowy little resort before the storm really hits, but in his haste, he neglects to dodge a hidden boulder beneath the deepening snow. It throws him off balance, twisting his right ankle and sending him careening sideway into the trees. He hits his head hard on a low hanging branch, and then snaps his right ski in half on the next tree, further torquing his ankle, before finally tumbling to a halt in the shallow, but ice-cold waters of a small not-quite-frozen mountain stream.

"Buggering hell," he curses as he sits up slowly, his head spinning, water already soaking through the material of his snow pants.

He's only got one ski pole left, the other lost along with his left ski somewhere up the mountainside during his tumble, and he groans in pain as he twists his battered ankle to free it from the binding of the broken ski.

He needs to get out of the water.

Pushing himself to his feet, he nearly crumbles back into the rocky river, his ankle screaming in protest and threatening to give out. He's fairly certain the only thing preventing it from doing so is the sturdy design of his ski boots.

Using the ski pole as a cane, he stumbles from the river, dripping water and shivering as he leans against the closest tree to catch his breath, the world tilting unsteadily beneath his feet as he lifts his hand to his forehead, wincing when his gloved fingers come away covered in blood.

He's got to be the biggest idiot alive. Though, at this rate, he might not be for much longer. Over a decade working search and rescue in the mountains and what does he do? Why, he ignores every bloody rule in the book of course. Never venture into the back country alone. Always tell someone where you're going and when you'll be back. Don't overestimate your abilities; even an experienced skier can run into trouble. Pack supplies for shelter and an extra change of clothes in case of emergency.

He's repeated every single one of them countless times over the last ten or so years, but follow them himself? _Not bloody likely._

Hell, maybe he deserves to die out here.

One thing's for certain though; if he doesn't get a move on and find some sort of shelter, he will.

Limping onward, he continues down the mountain, stumbling through the deep snow, his ankle and head screaming in synchronized protest with every faltering step as the wind picks up, the snow falls heavier, and daylight quickly begins to fade.

He's not even sure which way is down when he finally sees it, something that looks like smoke rising through the trees. At this point he could certainly be imagining it, what with the way he's seeing double, his vision jumping, blurring darkly at the edges, but it's not like he has anything to lose, so he turns and pushes through the thick stand of pines.

There's a cabin, Jesus fucking Christ, thank the lord, there's a cabin.

His legs give out halfway between the trees and the house, so he crawls; using the last of his strength to nearly throw himself against the solid oak door. He thinks he calls out for help, but can't be sure that the wind and the snow didn't simply sweep his voice away in the blizzard, so he tries again.

The door opens and he falls inward, blinking up as his vision fades, and the last thing he thinks before giving in to the frightful tug of unconsciousness, is that he's clearly died and gone to heaven, because there's no way the blonde angel standing above him is real.

* * *

There's only a brief moment of consciousness where all he feels is blinding pain stemming from his ankle. He might scream, he's not sure. Darkness claims him again.

* * *

The next time he wakes, he registers warmth and not much else, flames flickering, a fire off to the right. His angel wipes a warm cloth gently over his forehead and tells him to rest. He does, sleep not more than a hairsbreadth away.

* * *

Something shakes him awake and he groans irritably. "Bugger off, 'm sleeping."

A pinch to his ribs followed by, "talk to me for a minute and then you can go back to sleep." Silence. "What's your name?"

His name? "Killian... Jones," he mumbles, trying to open his eyes. He succeeds after a moment.

The blonde angel smiles. "Good. I'm Emma. Can you tell me what day it is? The year?"

"'s December. The 21st? No, no, the 22nd. 2015." He blinks slowly up at her, feeling disconnected from his body. "Emma," he says, testing her name out on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds so he says it again. "Emma."

She rolls her eyes, but it's too dark and he can't make out the colour of them. "Do you know where you are, Killian?"

He groans and tries to turn for a better look around, but Emma stops him with a hand against his chest. "Lie still."

Doing as asked, he looks up at the ceiling, at shadowed golden-wood beams. "Well I was on the bloody mountainside, until it tried to kill me, but now I venture I'm in your home instead?"

She laughs, a small chuckle of a thing, and holds up three fingers in front of his face. "How many fingers?"

"Three," he says grabbing for them. He makes contact on the first try and he grins.

Emma smiles back and squeezes his hand before reaching for a small pen light. "Eyes forward please."

She checks his pupils and tucks the pen away, seemingly content that he's not suffered any severe head trauma.

"What's the verdict, Doc? Can I go back t' sleep?"

He might be able to see straight now, but he still feels like he got hit by a bloody truck, exhaustion weighing heavily on his limbs.

"Sleep," she confirms, stepping away. "I'll wake you again in a couple hours."

He's beneath several blankets, in a bed, he thinks, and the last thing he hears before slumber washes over him, is Emma's quiet voice talking to someone other than him. "I know, Eira, but I couldn't exactly leave him out in the snow."

* * *

The next time Emma wakes him, he's lucid enough to down a cup of warm tea at her insistence, sitting up slightly in the bed.

She perches on the edge of the mattress, looking a little out of place in her own home, and he asks the question he didn't get the chance to earlier. "Who's Eira?"

Emma turns and whistles. "C'mere girl." A second later, a large silver-coated husky jumps up on the bed, as light and graceful on her feet as a cat. "This is Eira." The dog looks rather unimpressed with his presence and Emma seems to bite back a smile. "She's not used to visitors." He gets the feeling she's not just talking about the dog.

"I don't imagine you get many up here," he comments, slumping back down in the bed after she takes the empty mug from his hand and disappears.

He's not awake long enough to hear her response.

* * *

This time when he wakes, it's on his own. The interior of the cabin is brighter and his head is clearer, only pounding dully now, the sharp pain from last night gone.

It's morning; bright white light pushes past the thick curtains, and Emma is asleep, mostly upright on a small couch, bundled up in a thick knitted throw, Eira curled onto the sofa at her feet. A mug sits forgotten on the natural wood coffee table and the fire in the hearth burns low, a chill creeping back into the room.

He should rise and tend to the dying fire, it's the least he can do after she essentially saved his life last night, but he takes a moment first to lie still and take stock of his injuries.

He's a little bit shocked at first to find himself naked save for a pair of snug sweatpants that clearly belong to her, but it makes sense; almost every sodding item of clothing he'd been wearing had been soaked through and likely frozen stiff. He lifts his arms from beneath the blankets to find that his prosthetic is no longer attached, the stump of his left forearm bare and exposed, a mess of ugly scars that mark jagged lines up past his elbow.

He fights the instinctive urge to shove it back below the bedding, just so he doesn't have to face the hideous sight and the memories that come with it. Somehow the thought of her seeing the ruined remains of his arm is a thousand times more humiliating than the fact that she more than likely took a peek at his flaccid, half-frozen cock when she did away with his wet clothing.

He wants to cover his wrist up, hide it from sight with something, anything, but his clothes and belongings are nowhere in sight and he's not about to go rummaging through her dresser in search of a spare sock. Embarrassed or not, he's still a gentleman. Besides, he tells himself, she's already seen it and clearly wasn't bothered. It's time that he grows a pair and admits that he's the one repulsed by his own perceived shortcomings here, not her.

With a sigh, he scrubs his hand over his face, careful not to disturb her tidy bandage work over the swelling at his temple. He flips the blankets back to inspect the tensor bandage around his ankle, rather impressed with her handiwork there as well. The joint and muscles protest sorely when he rotates it and he looks up suddenly at the sound of her sleep-weary voice.

"There's a crutch leaning against the wall," she tells him through a yawn. "Washroom's through that door if you need it."

Attempting to put some weight on his ankle and forego the crutch, he hears her scoff at the same time he grunts in pain and seriously reconsiders his ankle's weight-bearing capabilities.

"Don't be such a man," she scolds. "Just use the crutch. I'm fairly certain nothing is broken, but if you expect it to heal any time soon, I'd avoid putting weight on it for at least a few days."

"Right," he grunts, reaching for the crutch, somehow the fact that he's stuck here going right over his head for the moment.

It's a little bit awkward when he's only got one good leg and one hand period, but he manages to hobble to the small bathroom to relieve himself. Looking at his reflection in the mirror after he washes his hand (another awkward task), he takes in the bruise forming around his eye and the unnatural pallor to his skin, realizing once again just how close of a call it had been.

There's a very good chance that without her, he'd be little more than a frozen corpse in the snow right now. He should probably stop hiding his sorry arse away in the privy and get out there and thank her.

He takes another moment to steady himself first; to notice the nasty bruise forming over his left shoulder and the organized clutter of her small bathroom—the sliding doors of a linen closet, the berry-red towels hanging on hooks on the back of the door, lending a subdued festivity to the warm wood walls and white porcelain bathroom fixtures. A large clawfoot tub sits opposite the sink, surrounded by a sheer snowflake patterned shower curtain that hangs from the ceiling. It's not the in-your-face sort of Christmas décor that he expects to see at this time of year, but it's there all the same and he tries not to hate it.

When he exits the bathroom into the main living space of the cabin, he tries to content himself with the knowledge that at least his mysterious saviour doesn't seem to have a Christmas tree.

Speaking of his so-called saviour, (there's a hazy and slightly humiliating memory somewhere in there of him asking her if she was an angel), the quiet blonde (Emma, he reminds himself) is nowhere to be seen. Her dog, (Eira, was it?) is also absent, and he shuffles back toward the bed, suddenly feeling a little bit weak and unsteady.

He sits at the foot of the mattress, his arse protesting when he puts too much weight on his left cheek, and he suspects that he's likely battered and bruised there as well.

Just exactly how bloody far did he fall before finally coming to a stop, he wonders.

Perhaps he _should_ have snooped through her medicine cabinet in search of something to ease the pain. He groans and observes the room, wondering briefly if the lass has got any rum tucked away—he looks at his stump and does his best to fight the instinctive cringe that sets hard in the line of his jaw—he could certainly stand to self-medicate a little, allow alcohol to dull his senses and soothe his pathetic ego.

It's a daft idea, if he's ever had one, what with the lingering ache in his head and the fact that he can't even manage to stand on his own two feet. Probably a good thing he's got manners enough not to go rummaging about in some kind stranger's kitchen. If he got as pissed as he might like to, she'd be certain to toss his pathetic arse back out into the snow.

Rubbing at his beard, (he thinks it can be classified as a beard now—he hasn't trimmed it in weeks), he tries to shake himself out of his funk and simply be grateful that he's alive and indoors in the relative warmth of Emma's cozy little cabin.

He pulls a thick Navajo patterned blanket around his shoulders, noticing how the bed and the small couch flank the rough stone fireplace in the corner. There's a plush fur rug covering the hardwood floor and when Killian studies the coffee table more carefully, he realizes that it's clearly handmade; repurposed wood, polished and stained, supported by custom-welded wrought iron legs.

There's no shortage of blankets and pillows in the cozy corner of the cabin, thick quilts and crocheted throws are piled high on the double bed, and if he lifts the corner of the one around his shoulders to his nose, he can detect a hint of cinnamon and cocoa mixing with the stronger scent of woodsmoke.

The rest of the cabin is mostly open, essentially one square room, the small couch butting up against an extending portion of the kitchen counter and cabinets. There's an antique combination bookshelf and dresser parallel to the bed against the exterior of the bathroom wall, and in the nook between the bathroom and what he assumes to be some sort of mudroom, there sits a roundish rough-hewn table in front of a large bay window.

The curtains are still drawn, only a crack of white light shining from between them, and he stands again, wanting to get a better look outside. Bunching the blanket a little higher around his neck so that it doesn't fall from his shoulders when he walks, he gathers the crutch again and hobbles toward the window.

It's a bit of a balancing act, tucking the crutch beneath his armpit while he struggles to push the curtains aside, but when he succeeds, he has to instantly close his eyes against the staggering brightness of the snow covered world outside.

A moment or two to adjust and then he's able to take in the stark white canvas of the winter wonderland before his eyes. Snow is still falling, large flakes, fluffy like cotton balls dropping from the clouds above to blanket the already substantial covering on the hillside and the trees.

Wind whips, blustery violence as a squall tosses snow in near whiteout conditions, and he presses his fingertips to the partially frosted windowpane, the fact finally hitting him that even if he could walk or had another pair of skis, he is obviously not going anywhere in this storm.

The door opens, a bundled-up, snow-covered Emma stomping through, followed closely by her dog, and Killian startles, jumping as much as one can jump while leaning against a crutch with only one good leg. In reality, it's more like almost falling on his face, and Emma at least has the decency to hide her laugh behind the snow-crusted scarf covering the lower half of her face.

"Sorry," she apologizes, dropping a large crate of firewood to the floor so she can begin stripping her winter layers.

He watches with what is probably ridiculous fascination as she goes through the process of lowering her hood, unwinding her scarf, and removing her toque to reveal her wavy, snow-dampened locks. Her long, bright red parka gets unbuttoned and unzipped, shrugged out of and hung on hooks he can't see before she works her black snow pants over her slim hips, stepping from her snow boots into moccasins without allowing her socked feet to touch the floor.

She's dressed in tight black long johns, fuzzy candy cane striped socks that rise to mid-calf, and an oversized ivory sweater that falls loosely to the tops of her thighs. She bends to towel off Eira's paws, her long hair a golden curtain around the husky's head, and he thinks that maybe last night's delirious assessment and declaration that she was an angel might just be true.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, picking up the crate and making her way over to the fireplace. Eira gives him another dirty look before bounding across the room after her master.

Killian moves slowly after them, sinking down to sit on the couch while Emma tends to the fire, stoking the dying embers before adding more wood.

"Head's much better," he tells her, trying not to laugh at the way his sweatpants (her sweatpants technically), while an acceptable fit around his hips, fall woefully short of his ankles. "Still feel like the bleeding twit who took a tumble down the mountain and nearly got himself killed by ignoring every basic rule of winter wilderness survival."

She scoffs and looks at him over her shoulder while she fans the fire. "Some emergency kit you had in your bag there. Did you really think that a couple protein bars, a map, and an extra pair of socks were going to be sufficient if you ran into trouble? Are you stupid or do you just think you're invincible?" she scolds, sounding extraordinarily mad for someone who probably shouldn't give two shits about him. "You probably would have died if your sorry ass hadn't gotten lucky and stumbled across my cabin. You know that, right?"

She's still kneeling on the rug, but she's facing him now, her arms crossed over her chest and he's shocked by the accountability he feels for his actions where this beautiful woman is concerned, the shame that trickles through his veins as he bows his head and considers his words carefully.

"Aye," he begins, "I am all too aware that without your kindness and an apparent horseshoe up my arse, I'd be deep in a snowy grave right about now. So thank you, love, for taking me in and tending to my wounds."

She shrugs as if you say 'it was nothing' and then raises an eyebrow at him, the frown still in place on wind-chapped lips.

Clearly she's actually expecting an answer to her question.

"I'm an idiot," he admits reluctantly, knowing it's the truth. "This isn't… Christmas is not…" He stops, breathes, and starts again. "It's not exactly a good time of year for me. I tend to lose my head a little."

She nods and stands, wipes her hands on her thighs, and thankfully doesn't ask him to elaborate. "You must be hungry. I don't have anything fancy, but I can whip something up while you change. I'll just grab your clothes out of the dryer."

Emma ducks into the mudroom while he gets back up and leans against the arm of the couch.

When she returns with a pile of his clothes in her arms, she's blushing, her cheeks flushed, not from the cold, but from something else entirely.

"I uh," she starts, stumbling over her words. "Are you okay to dress alone or do you need a hand – shit! Sorry," she cringes. "Help," she substitutes, "do you need help? I mean, I've uh, already seen all there is to see, so if you need a ha – _help,_ help. God, I'm such an asshole. It doesn't bother me, your wrist, not at all, I want you to know that, and I just, lending someone a hand is such a common colloquialism, and I'm probably just being more offensive by _trying_ to avoid the matter instead of addressing it outright – "

He cuts her off by reaching out to touch her arm. "It's all right, love, don't uh, feel the need to avoid the word. It's just a hand," he says as much for her benefit as for his own, "or lack thereof." And then to lighten the mood, he looks down at his crotch. "Took a peek at the goods, did ya?"

She blushes redder and laughs. "Not intentionally! But I couldn't exactly leave you lying around in half frozen tighty whities, now could I? Can't say I've ever undressed and dressed a barely conscious man before. Was quite the experience."

"Thank you again for that, Emma. For everything," he says sincerely, "you've gone far above the call of duty in such an unusual situation. I do believe I can manage to dress myself this time. Though if you could carry the clothes to the bathroom for me that would be greatly appreciated."

She precedes him to the bathroom and leaves his clothes next to the sink before he even makes it to the entrance. "How do you like your eggs?" she asks, squeezing past him in the doorway.

"No real preference, love. Whatever is easiest." He halts her before she can walk away, his fingers on the soft knit of her sweater. "When you dragged me in from the snow last night, did you happen to see my prosthetic?" he asks, nodding toward his arm when confusion clouds her features.

"You didn't have it on you, sorry. You must have lost it somewhere out in the storm. If it stops snowing I could go out and -"

"No, no, you'd never find it. It's of no real matter, it can be replaced." He smiles at her. "Just means I'll probably need a hand with my socks in a few minutes."

She laughs. "I can do that. Go change, help yourself to the towels or a facecloth if you want to wash up a bit in the sink."

He spends an awkward ten or so minutes in the bathroom, cleaning up and changing. It ends up being easiest to sit on the toilet while he removes the too-short sweatpants and struggles back into his briefs. The navy long johns are an even bigger challenge, and when he can't manage to get his swollen and wrapped ankle through the narrow elastic opening, he ends up rifling through the drawers for a pair of scissors to cut the bottom few inches off altogether.

His white Henley and grey sweater go on much easier, and when he finally steps from the bathroom, exhausted and nearly ready to sleep again, Emma's waiting by the couch with two plates and two steaming mugs.

Eira is lounging at the foot of the bed, looking much happier, and Killian wonders if the reason the dog regarded him with such disdain earlier is because he had been sleeping in her bed.

He hobbles over to the couch with the socks tucked into the waistband of his long johns, collapsing with relief into the soft cushions of the couch.

"Feet up," Emma instructs as she hands the plate to him and tugs the socks from his waistband. "I hope you're okay with hot cocoa. I ran out of coffee yesterday." She motions to the mugs on the table, moving to sit next to him as she pulls his feet into her lap.

Catching sight of the poorly hidden smirk on her lips when she notices the hack job he did on his pants, he takes a bite of the scrambled eggs and shrugs. "It was that or walk around in my tighty whities."

She laughs and starts unwinding the wrap on his ankle. The skin beneath is bruised, black and blue in some places and he cringes, leaning forward to inspect it closer, nearly bumping heads with her when she moves to stand, gently setting his foot down on the table. "You should ice it for a while before I wrap it back up," she says, moving behind him to the kitchen to rustle through the freezer.

She returns a moment later with a flexible cold pack wrapped in a dishtowel, securing it in place over his ankle despite his protests at how bloody cold it is.

It takes a moment, but he convinces her that his other foot will do without the sock for now and that she should sit down and eat with him before her food gets cold.

The couch dips with her slight weight and she wolfs down her breakfast, finishing it well ahead of him. Eira watches them with casual disinterest from the bed and Killian can't help but feel that the dog is some sort of overprotective chaperone.

Emma hands him the cocoa when he leans forward to reach for it, shockingly adept at reading his movements for someone who quite obviously doesn't spend much time in the company of others.

Breaking the not entirely unpleasant silence, he nudges her gently with his elbow, careful not to spill either of their drinks. "I don't suppose it's too much to hope that you've got some sort of phone around here, is it? I really should contact my brother and let him know I'm still breathing."

Emma takes another careful sip of her cocoa and turns slightly to face him, her knee grazing his thigh on the small couch. "I've got a sat phone, but it won't be much use until the storm clears enough for you to step outside and use it." She seems to ponder something for a moment. "Was your brother skiing with you?"

There's a fair amount of concern in her voice and he shakes his head quickly, wanting to reassure her. "No, this was a solo trip. Liam's back home celebrating the holidays with his family as he should be."

Emma frowns. "And yet you're out here alone…"

He tilts his head and looks at her, suddenly feeling defensive. "Aye, and so are you," he retorts a little harsher than necessary.

Her frown deepens and she stands, gathering the dishes and disappearing again, leaving him sitting there metaphorically kicking himself, because you're not the only one in the world with a painful past, you blooming prat! Best not go and cock up your only option for room and board while the storm still rages and you can't bloody walk off this mountain. There's more to it than that, though. He's touched a nerve with her and he actually feels bad about it.

He sighs and twists on the couch to get a better look at her while she scrubs dishes in the kitchen sink. "Apologies, love, there's no excuse for my behavior when you've taken me into your home and shown me nothing but kindness."

She echoes his sigh and turns the water off. "I'm sorry, too." She moves back to sit in front of him on the coffee table and removes the ice from his ankle. "I'm kind of used to being alone. I didn't have much choice for most of my life and now I guess it's become habit."

She rolls the sock onto his good foot before moving back to his injured ankle, cradling it with her thighs while she rolls up the tensor bandage.

"Do you live out here year round?" he asks, curious even as he yawns. He could ask her to elaborate on her last statement, but he doesn't. He suspects it's an unpleasant story and he knows all to well the tendency to play those close to the chest.

She shakes her head. "Nah, can't afford not to work and there's not much in the way of work when you're surrounded by nothing but trees. I usually spend most of December up here, but the rest of the year it's only home whenever I can get the odd week off." She begins wrapping his ankle, talented fingers working confidently, careful not to jostle him unnecessarily. "Eira likes it – loves to play sled-dog. We catch rabbits, I've got a ton of venison in the deep freeze. Most of the rest is pasta and root vegetables, things that store well. I make my own bread – those eggs on their own were a bit of a luxury." She shrugs and secures the end of the wrap. "It's simple. An escape."

He's close to nodding off, his eyes drooping as she talks, her voice soothing, and when she notices, she helps lower his feet to the floor and hands him the crutch. "Get into the bed, then you can sleep."

He makes a token gesture of resisting, but really, his heart's not in it, not when he knows how comfortable the mattress is.

It's quite clear that Eira thinks he should resist, shifting begrudgingly at Emma's insistence to make room for him. He settles into the bed and pulls the blanket up to his chin. "And just what exactly is it that you do for work, Emma?" he asks, struck with the unexpected urge to know more about the beautiful blonde currently looking down at him with something approaching a smile.

"There are stakeouts, cold coffee, handcuffs, the odd bad guy, lots of paperwork…" she teases.

"You're a cop?" he asks, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead.

"Sheriff Swan at your service," she announces with a bit of an eye roll, flopping back on the couch. "Now shut up and let's both get some more sleep."


	2. Chapter 2

The sun has set when he wakes next, opening his eyes to the sight of Emma standing by the oven in the small kitchen. She's got a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose and a book open in her left hand while she absent-mindedly stirs something on the stove.

Outside, the wind howls, the storm still going strong if the caking of snow against the screen of the nearest window is any indication.

He rises slowly, reaching for the crutch so he can make his way to the bathroom. Emma doesn't seem to notice his movement; the fan above the oven is loud and she's too engrossed in her book to pay him any mind.

The bathroom is lit by a small oil lamp and the bright white of the snow that continues to glow, almost like magic, even after nightfall, though the sun is long gone and there's no moon in sight.

The bruising around his eye is darker now, but the swelling at his temple seems to have gone down and he carefully peels away the bandage to inspect the cut. It extends diagonally from the midpoint of his eyebrow to the edge of his hairline, scabbed over and no longer bleeding. He's lucky he didn't put his eye out on that branch. He scoffs quietly at the picture that conjures; _one-eyed, one-hand, peg-leg Jones._ He'd make a hell of a pirate.

He's still standing there, staring at his reflection in the mirror when a knock sounds on the bathroom door.

"Aye?" he questions, trying to figure out if she actually expects him to open it.

"Just wanted to let you know there are extra toothbrushes in the back of the top left drawer," she offers through the door. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, okay?"

"Aye, thank you, love. I'll be out shortly."

He ends up selecting a bright pink toothbrush; it's that or red, and she already has a red one sitting in the holder on the countertop. It seems rather pointless, brushing his teeth when he's about to eat, but it makes him feel a little more human, so he does it anyway, trying not to notice the picture it paints when he drops his toothbrush into the holder next to hers. It's uncomfortably domestic, a glaring reminder of everything he's lost, and he quickly finishes up so he doesn't have to ignore it any longer.

Emma's setting the table when he emerges, birch-bark placemats with gold ochre plates and heavy looking silverware.

"Anything I can help with?" he asks, knowing that he's severely limited in his abilities right now, and that she'll probably just turn him down, but still, Liam didn't raise him to be rude.

She surprises him by nodding. "Mind stirring the gravy while I check on the bread?"

"I'd love to." He makes his way slowly into the kitchen, happy to be able to contribute in some way, no matter how small and insignificant it may be. "What are we having?"

"There's a venison roast in the oven, mashed potatoes, turnip, the bread is almost done. It should all be enough for leftovers for tomorrow. The generator runs the oven and few other things in here, but I try not to burn any more fuel than necessary."

"Sounds like you've got quite the routine down." He stirs the gravy, leaning on the crutch while she inspects the contents of the bread maker tucked into the corner of the counter to his right. "Thank you again for taking me in and putting up with me. Hopefully this ankle will heal up soon and I'll be out of your hair in a few days."

"Killian," she says, turning to face him. "You don't have to keep thanking me. Did you really think I'd just leave you out in the snow to die?"

There's that lovely little roll of her eyes again – they're green, he finally notices – and he laughs. "No, I suppose not, but obviously you're alone up here for a reason. I'm unexpected company."

Emma shrugs. "Unexpected, yes, but not totally unwelcome. It's kind of nice to have someone around," she admits shyly. "Even if all you've done so far is sleep in my bed."

"I'll gladly take the couch tonight, love," he insists, pulling the pot of gravy off the burner before it thickens too much.

She sighs and carefully lifts the golden brown loaf of bread from the machine. "We're not having this discussion. You're too tall for the couch; you'd just end up contorting your ankle and hurting it worse." She shoos him out of the way so she can pull the roast from the oven. "Besides, I've slept in worse places than a slightly too short couch."

There's a definite sense of finality to the way she says it and he decides to drop the matter for now, somehow sensing that she's not the sort to do well with being pushed in certain regards. "All right."

He wishes he could help her carry the food to the table – it's a tad depressing being essentially naught but a bloody invalid – and he's thankful once again when she appoints him a task that he's actually capable of completing in his injured state.

"Mind sticking your head out the door and calling for Eira? She's been out in the snow for a while now. Probably wants in."

The husky comes running, a greyish streak, barely visible through the blowing snow. She gives him a funny look as if to say _'what are you still doing here?'_ , but waits patiently while he struggles to wipe the snow from her coat and paws.

His sock ends up a bit wet, but if it's the only part of him that's damp, he's certainly in far better shape than he was at this time last night.

"Sit," Emma orders when he follows Eira back in from the mudroom.

He scowls a little bit, but takes a seat in the chair she pulled out for him. "You don't have to wait on me hand and foot, love."

Her cheeks dimple, her mouth carving into a smile, silent laughter restrained behind closed lips as she sets the last dish of food on the table. Hilarious choice of words, he realizes belatedly, smiling back at her despite himself.

"Please allow me to help with something," he requests, following her lead and loading up his plate. "I'm sure I can manage to wash a few dishes after supper. Might take me a bit longer than most, but I'm not entirely helpless."

She slides the basket of bread within his reach. "I didn't think you were. I mean obviously you managed to ski over halfway down the mountain – that's tough terrain for anyone." She bites into a forkful of roasted venison, and he notices then how she'd cut it all into smaller strips, not bite sized pieces that would have made him feel like a child and even more of a failure, but into something that he could easily manage without having to lift an entire slab of meat on his fork to take awkward bites while trying not to drop it.

Affection surges unexpectedly along with appreciation in his chest, because she's somehow managing to strike a perfect balance between helping him out and still making him feel capable. It's something that's been all too rare in his life over the last five years. Most people simply go out of their way to do everything for him as soon as they notice his disability. Even Liam had been an overbearing mother hen for the first year after the accident. It had taken a blow up in which Killian had insisted (screamed, really) that _"I can tie my own bleeding shoes, Liam! Stop treating me like a helpless child and allow me to bloody well figure it out on my own!"_ for his brother to finally take a step back and allow him to learn to function on his own.

It had taken a while to learn to use the limited functionality of the prosthetic to his advantage, but when he'd figured it out, the dexterity of his remaining hand increasing, he'd found there was very little he couldn't do if he put his mind to it.

Not having his prosthetic now is a lot like taking a giant step backwards to that first fumbling year, but it helps that Emma isn't dwelling on it.

"How long have you been skiing?" she asks him in attempt to start up the conversation again.

"Picked it up nearly fifteen years ago when my brother and I moved overseas from London. I've been working as a part-time ski instructor and doing search and rescue for most of the last decade."

She seems to find that amusing and he knows exactly why. "I know, I know, I'm an idiot," he says, beating her to the punch. "A decade working search and rescue and I do exactly what I've given countless people hell for doing."

Shaking her head, she laughs, and he spends the next half hour while they eat, telling her some of the more outlandish ski-patrol stories in his repertoire: like that time he'd had to trek up a mountainside to render aid to some poor bastard who broke his leg while skiing bare-arsed nude on a dare. He shakes his head at the memory even now. _There are just some places a man does not want frostbite._

They move into the kitchen to clean up and Killian spends the first few minutes of dishwashing attempting to keep his damaged arm hanging down by his side, out of sight and out of the soapy dish water, even though it would surely be easier to scrub the pots with his right hand if his left arm was holding them still.

Emma sighs no less than five times before putting down the dishtowel and moving to stand behind him. She yanks up the sleeve of his shirt and forcibly bends his elbow. He resists, tensing when she runs her fingers over the scars on his forearm, circles her fingers gently around the blunt end of his wrist and guides it into the warm water with her hand. "Stop being stupid," she huffs, still holding onto his arm, her chin on his shoulder and her body against his back as she swirls their limbs lazily together beneath the surface of the water. "There is nothing repulsive about this. You don't have to hide it; it's not unclean or gross, okay? It's just your arm. You can stick it in the dish water if it makes washing easier."

He exhales, breathing out slowly, relaxing back against her just a fraction of an inch as something he can't quiet name settles inside him with her words. "All right," he says, keeping his arm where it is when she withdraws her touch, steps away from him, and reaches for the dishtowel again.

With the cleanup complete, they move back to sit by the coffee table with tea and a nearly fifty year old version of Monopoly that she tells him must have been left in the cabin by its previous owners.

He sits on the couch with his injured ankle stretched out and elevated at her insistence (the lass is stubborn and bloody well won't take no for an answer), and she sits on the plush rug using a large pillow as a seat. The old board game is faded, the colours muted, the paper money creased and torn in places. The board doesn't lie quite flat either, but it's all just evidence of many years of play. Emma is ruthless; it takes nearly three hours – he gives as good as he gets – but she eventually bankrupts him, leaving him with a smile on his face as he hands her his last faded-pink five dollar bill.

The firelight at her back casts an angelic glow around her – her tangled hair falling in a golden tumble over her shoulder as she gathers her winnings with a grin that he suddenly and terrifyingly wants to kiss from her lips. He doesn't though – not quite sure where the feeling came from or what to do with it, so instead, in a move that he plays off as a show of good sportsmanship, he extends his hand over the table. "It was a close one, but you bested me, lass. Good game." He doesn't totally understand it; it's been so long since he's felt an even remotely comparable urge, but after that moment in the kitchen earlier, he finds himself craving the contact of her skin against his own – even if it's something as simple and innocent as a handshake.

She takes his hand, their palms pressing together as her fingers curl, small, but strong, around his much larger ones. She shakes his hand firmly, with a strength her slim form doesn't necessarily suggest. "I kicked your ass and you know it."

The smile on her face is something he wishes to see more of. "Aye, you did." She drops his hand then and he fells the loss acutely. "Perhaps a rematch tomorrow night?" He looks at his ankle and out the window at the snow still falling. "Since it appears I'll still be stuck here."

"Sounds like a plan," she says, rising to return the game to its shelf in the mudroom. "I'll be back in soon with more firewood," she calls, and he watches as Eira lopes through the cabin to join Emma outside.

It doesn't escape him, as he finishes off the last of his lukewarm tea, that tomorrow is Christmas Eve, that this will be the first time in five long years that he doesn't spend the holiday alone. He doesn't know if he should dread it or perhaps try to enjoy it. Emma has made no mention of any specific plans, so maybe they'll just treat it as any other ordinary day of the year. There's no calendar on the wall, nothing but his own mind to remind him of the date; if he tries hard enough, he's sure he could pretend that Christmas simply doesn't exist. He decides that if that's the case, it's likely for the best, and then he tries to ignore the brief flicker of disappointment that rises at the thought.

When she returns, he's still on the couch, contemplating life and how it is rarely what he expects it to be, how one minute he was alone, skiing down the mountainside in an attempt to outrun his demons, and then the next, he was here, snowed in, confined to this rustic cabin with his beautiful saviour, a woman who seems to be awakening feelings in him that he'd thought long dormant, maybe even altogether dead.

"Killian?" She flicks him in the ear, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Bloody hell, love! What was that for?" He rubs at his ear and frowns, twisting his neck to look at her.

"You didn't answer me the first four times I called your name," she tells him, rolling her eyes.

"Apologies, Emma, was there something you needed?"

"I'm going to take a quick shower; just figured I'd see if you wanted in there to get ready for bed first."

She's got what looks like a change of clothes bundled up in her left arm and he shakes his head. "You go ahead. With how much I've slept the past twenty-four hours, it's likely to be a while before I'm ready to sleep."

"I'll just be-" she nods toward the bathroom, waiting for some sign of acknowledgement before she leaves his side. The door closes behind her and near silence descends over the room, nothing but the peaceful crackle and hiss of fire consuming wood to accompany his thoughts.

After a moment, pipes creak, groaning to life as the muffled sound of water falling upon porcelain drifts from the bathroom. There's something oddly soothing about it; the noise and the evidence of someone else's presence in a home, and he zones out a little bit, allowing the dancing flames and the cozy atmosphere to mesmerize him slightly.

The sound of water grows suddenly louder and he turns his head when she calls his name again. "Killian?"

He catches a glimpse of bare shoulder and bright red towel and swallows heavily before answering. "Aye, love?" he grins at her, unable to stop his next words before they leave his daft mouth. "Need a _hand?_ "

She gives him a look that screams _'Seriously?'_ and he has a sneaking suspicion if she weren't busy holding onto both her towel and the door, she might opt to lob something hard at his head. "I do _not_ need a hand. I just wanted to tell you to help yourself to anything on the bookshelf. I know it can get pretty boring around here with no TV or internet."

He smiles again; less leering, more appreciative this time. "Thank you, love. I shall. Now go enjoy that shower before you run out of hot water." He doesn't imagine it lasts very long up here.

The bathroom door closes and he hauls himself off the couch to go look at the bookshelf. There are a handful of knickknacks on the surface beneath it; a delicate glass swan sits next to a soapstone carving of a husky on the right side of the dresser, and on the left, a small, bright yellow '69 Volkswagen Beetle model flanks what he quickly determines is a homemade teacup candle. In the middle there's a three-photo picture frame and he picks it up to study its contents closer. The left and right windows hold pictures of Eria; one with the dog hooked up to a sled in a snowy field, and the other standing on a beach in the heat of summer. It's the centre picture, however, that really catches his eye. The season is hard to pinpoint because it was taken inside and the clothing is rather generic, but Emma stands in a distressed but modern kitchen, between a tall blonde man and a petite raven-haired woman. They're all laughing as a toddler, bearing striking resemblance to the unknown man and woman, dangles upside down (clearly thrilled) in Emma's arms.

He's curious to know more about these mysterious friends of Emma's; their names, how they met, why she isn't spending Christmas with them… He's tempted to open the frame to check for scribbled handwriting on the back of the photo that might give him further insight into who his beautiful blonde saviour is, but the water shuts off in the bathroom and he turn his attention to the collection of books instead, not wanting to appear nosy. He looks over his shoulder; Eira is already regarding him with enough suspicion from her spot at the foot of the bed.

The entire _Harry Potter_ collection is present, neighboring a large selection of crime and mystery novels. _Life of Pi_ sits next to _Pride and Prejudice_ , which banks a handful of Dr. Seuss books. _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ sits next to a manual on gun maintenance, another on dog training, followed by a game meat recipe book. There's Jane Austen, Edgar Allen Poe, and a number by Margaret Atwood. He thumbs through another shelf of well-known and eclectic titles before finally coming across _The Princess Bride_.

It's well worn, clearly well loved, and he plucks it from the shelf, noticing how the spine is bent and the cover is faded. Some of the pages are slightly rippled from water damage, but the words are still readable and he's about to return to the couch with it, when the bathroom door opens and Emma appears at his side.

She smells like apples and cinnamon mixed with something rich and chocolaty, and there's a moment there, when she leans over his shoulder, with her hair still wrapped in a towel, to check out his book selection, where he wonders what she'd taste like.

"Good choice," she tells him, stepping away as quickly as she appeared. "It's one of my favorites. Have you read it before?"

He nods, the smell of her and the brief feel of her against his shoulder still wreaking havoc on his senses. "Aye, but it's been a number of years."

"I'm due for a reread soon." She bends at the waist to towel dry her hair and he can't help but notice the way her leggings, a soft grey this time, cling to her subtle curves and the strength of her thighs. She's got a different shirt on now, too; plaid flannel containing earthy greens, rich navy, and warm gold. The colours bring out her eyes, and when she flips her hair back over her shoulder and catches him staring, she just laughs and rolls those pretty green eyes.

"I just finished my last book and that was actually next on my list," she adds casually.

He holds the book out to her. "It's all yours then, love. I can choose something else if your heart is set on this one. You've got an impressive collection here."

She ignores his offering, tosses her towel over a hook on the back of the bathroom door, and moves to stretch out on the couch. "I have a better idea. You've got a good storytelling voice; how about you read it to me?"

He chuckles and tucks the book under his arm so he can move to sit on the bed. "Fan of my accent, are we, love?" he teases, getting settled. Eira grunts, but moves to accommodate him, and he thinks that just maybe the husky is warming to him slightly.

"I don't hate it," Emma admits, shaking out a blanket to cover her legs. "Besides, I've never had a British guy read to me before." She pauses for a moment and he waits patiently while she seems to consider something. "Actually, I don't think I've ever had anyone read to me." There's something sad in her voice and it's not an outright admission to something he's been suspecting, but it's a tentative piece of the puzzle that is Emma Swan.

"So, whaddya say, Killian?" Her voice is lighter again, back to the playful tone he's already grown accustomed to. "Gonna read to a girl? Maybe earn your room and board?"

He's not sure why he says it; maybe because he's never been one to pass up opportunity when it all but falls into his lap, or maybe he just wants to see her reaction. Maybe it's that he's known the woman for just over a day, but already he feels some terrifyingly beautiful kinship with her. Whatever the reason, he opens his mouth as he opens the book and says, "As you wish."

The smile it prompts is small, but it's there, the corner of her mouth ticking up as she looks down and takes a moment to tuck the blanket in around her toes before snuggling down further into the cushions. "Nearly settled, love?" he asks when she looks back up. He's got the book open in his lap, ready and waiting. She nods and he flips the pages back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. "Would you like me to read the introduction, or shall I skip ahead to the first chapter?"

She chews on her lip for a moment, looking positively adorable in her indecision. "Read the intro," she tells him. "I have a bad habit of skipping most of it."

He flips to the page marked with his thumb and dramatically clears his throat. _"This is my favorite book in all the world. Though I have never read it. How is such a thing possible? I'll do my best to explain."_ He continues on, developing different voices and speech patterns for Miss Roginski, Mrs. Goldman, and Young Billy. Emma giggles at his theatrically high-pitched _"What are we going to do about Billy?"_ and he decides that his only goal, for the remainder of his time cooped up in this small cabin, is to see that Emma repeats that heavenly laugh as often as possible.

Emma's eyes begin to close as he reads – he looks up at her each time he flips the page – and by the time he reaches the end of the introduction, she's sound asleep on the couch.

There's a box of Kleenex on the bedside table and he plucks a tissue from it, folding it up to use as a bookmark so he doesn't have to dog-ear the delicate pages. Sitting the book aside, he slides from the bed with his crutch to add wood to the fire.

He's not quite tired yet, but heads to the bathroom to wash up anyway, not wanting to risk waking Emma by fumbling about later.

The room still holds lingering warmth from the heat of Emma's shower, the scent of her, and whatever bath products she used, hanging heavy in the air, and he spends more time than he cares to admit just standing there and breathing it in before he actually completes a single step involved in getting ready for bed.

Emma is still sleeping soundly when he moves as quietly as possible around the cabin to snuff out the lanterns, and when the only light remaining stems from the fire in the hearth, he crawls into bed and eventually drifts off to the sound of her soft snores, the thought that it's nice not to be alone following him into slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes in the morning to a racket of cursing and yapping, his eyes opening to the sight of Emma wrestling a five-foot fir tree into the cabin.

Apparently she means to celebrate Christmas after all.

He's torn between his usual cold displeasure at the sight of anything Christmas-related, and something warmer that he immediately stomps down and refuses to put a name to.

Eira bounds in excited circles around Emma and the tree, whining, moaning, and howling in a ridiculous symphony of noises that have Killian burrowing back beneath the blankets with the pillow over his head.

Bloody hell, he _hates_ Christmas.

All right, perhaps that's a slight over exaggeration. He doesn't hate Christmas, at least he never used to, he just has a hard time making merry and spreading joy and all manner of other holiday nonsense, when all it's done for the past five years, is remind him of things he'd rather forget.

There are several more long minutes of banging and cursing, in which he lies there feeling increasingly guilty for not offering aid, and then in turn, increasingly more annoyed with Emma for getting a tree in the first place, before he hears her breathy "Finally!" followed closely by more noises from Eira and Emma's laughter, a slammed door, and "Go on, put your noisy self outside."

Blissful silence, _finally._

Until Emma pulls the blankets from over his head, that is. "I know you're awake."

He flips over and opens one eye to glare at her. "Hard not to be when you and that bloody banshee of a dog insist upon dragging the bleeding forest indoors at the arse-crack of dawn."

Hurt flickers across her face for a fraction of a second before she covers it with rightful anger. "Jeez, way to be an ass about it." She drops the sat phone none-too-gently on the bed next to his head. "There's a brief break in the storm. You'll have to step outside to make your call. I'll be back later." With that, she storms out the door, leaving him sitting there, staring at the damned beauty of a tree, silently cursing the holiday, and then himself for being such an insufferable arse.

Pulling himself out of bed, he tucks the phone into the pocket of his sweater so he can use the crutch to get to the mudroom. His ankle feels a little better today, but he doesn't want to ruin any forward progress by putting weight on it too soon. He finds his jacket and ski boots against the one wall and steps into the left boot, leaving his right foot bare since he won't be walking on it anyway.

Zipping up the jacket is a challenge he doesn't feel like facing, so he leaves it hanging open as he limps out into the cold.

The early morning light is grey and dull; the sun still hidden somewhere behind thick layers of snow clouds. There's got to be an additional two feet of fresh fallen snow since the last time he was out here, and he takes a moment to appreciate the fact that Emma seems to have shoveled out enough of a path for him to leave the shadow of the cabin.

The signal on the phone strengthens once he's out in the middle of the small clearing and he quickly dials Liam's number. The snow may have stopped for now, but the wind still whips around him, biting at his exposed flesh, and he doesn't desire to be out here for any longer than necessary.

Liam answers on the second ring. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Ebenezer Scrooge," Killian answers cheekily, feeling like it isn't all that far from the truth.

"Killian? Is that you?"

"Aye."

"Where the bloody hell have you been? We've tried calling your cell and the resort, but haven't been able to get ahold of you."

"No cell reception halfway up the mountainside in a snow storm, I'm afraid."

"Mountainside… in a snowstorm? Oh, little brother, what trouble have you gotten yourself into now?"

"Afraid I had a little skiing accident –" Liam tries to interrupt and Killian quickly shushes him. "Oy! Hold your tongue and just let me finish! _I'm okay_ ," Killian reassures, "and it's ' _younger brother'_ , you git. Wee bit of a bump on the head and a twisted ankle, but I got lucky and stumbled across a cozy cabin owned by a lovely lass. Had to wait for the snow to stop long enough to step outside with her sat phone."

Killian can practically hear the eye roll that accompanies Liam's sigh. "Back country skiing on your own again?" Liam doesn't wait for an answer. "Blimey, Killian, you're an idiot."

"I know." He does. He really does. And he deserves that title for more than just nearly getting himself killed on the mountainside. Sometimes he really should think before he speaks. He sighs, unable to get Emma's face and the expression of hurt at his callous words out of his head.

"So," Liam says, "this lass, tell me, is she pretty? Does she have a name? Is she around so I can thank her for saving your sorry arse?"

"Liam," Killian huffs with a mixture of exhaustion and annoyance.

"Ah, I know that tone, brother. Gone and pissed the lass off with that foul mouth of yours, have you now?"

"I may have been a little indelicate this morning when she dragged a Christmas tree in and woke me up," he admits reluctantly. "I don't get the feeling Emma – her name is Emma – is much for celebrating the holidays either, but I think she was just trying to do something nice for the both of us and there's a chance I hurt her feelings."

"A chance?"

"All right, all right, seeing as she called me an ass, nearly threw the phone at my head, and stormed out, it might be more than a chance."

"You like her," Liam surmises.

"What? Bloody hell, Liam, I don't – I don't know. Maybe?" Killian pauses and looks down at the empty sleeve of his jacket. "I lost my prosthetic hand somewhere on the bloody mountain, and gods, Liam, I've never spent this much time around anyone, not even you, without it. She's..." he trails off, trying to find the words for whatever the hell it is that he's feeling.

Liam laughs, loud and clear. "Killian," he says in his best fatherly voice. "Apologize to the woman. Find some way to make it up to her. And for fuck's sake, little brother, don't be afraid to enjoy yourself. It's been five years – I promise you, Milah would want you to be happy."

There's a lengthy break in which Killian contemplates his brother's words, unable to deny the truth of them no matter how hard he might try. Then there's laughter and a squeal over the line and he hears Liam say something that he can't quite make out.

"Listen, Killian. I've got to run, Laura's parents are here and we're heading out for breakfast in a moment. Remember what I said, and tell Emma 'thank you' and 'Happy Christmas' for me, all right?"

He nods even though he knows Liam can't see him, even though he has no real intention of repeating his brother's words. "I will. Give my best to Laura and Ben. Tell the little lad that Uncle Killy will be there sometime in the new year to visit him."

"Will do, brother." Liam mumbles something that Killian can't quite make out to another muted voice in the background. "Laura says that if things go well and you haven't mucked the situation up beyond repair, you're more than welcome to bring Emma along for a visit."

Sighing, Killian ends the call to the sound of his brother's mocking laughter.

Standing there in the cold as the snow starts to fall again, he attempts to picture exactly what "things going well" might look like. Turns out it looks a lot like something he hasn't allowed himself to contemplate in a very long time. Something he suddenly and desperately longs for.

Afraid to get his hopes up, he decides that he'd better start by attempting to salvage whatever the bloody hell this is or might grow to be.

* * *

The storm has picked up again, the wind even stronger this time, and he's about thirty seconds away from saying to hell with his ankle and going out into the blizzard to find her, when Emma finally returns, nearly blowing into the cabin on a snowy gust of wind.

He's had hot cocoa keeping warm on the stove for the last half hour in anticipation of her return, and he's not at all surprised when she enters the cabin and walks straight past him into the bathroom without a word.

He fucked up and he knows it.

She's in the bathroom for a while, but he doesn't hear the toilet flush or the water run, and he's fairly certain her entire purpose for being in there is to avoid him, so he waits patiently, adding wood to the fire and tidying up as best he can.

He uses the dog towel and the tip of his crutch as a laughable but effective mop to dry the floor of the lingering melted snow from her earlier fight with the tree, and then he finds a broom in the mudroom and proceeds to take part in some sort of awkward one-handed shuffle of a waltz with it as he sweeps the fallen needles into a pile.

He's got the dust pan sitting on the floor and is sussing out the best way to hold it still while sweeping the debris into it when Emma finally emerges from the washroom. He can feel her eyes on him as he nudges the dust pan to rest against his injured food and stands above the pile, leaning on the crutch tucked under his armpit as he neatly sweeps the mess into the pan.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks, and if he's not mistaken, there's a hint of amusement in her voice.

It's a good sign and he allows a sheepish smile to rise to his lips as he turns to face her. She's standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, looking expectantly at him, and if he hadn't already been planning to apologize, the expression on her face certainly would have prompted it.

"What does it look like, love?" he teases.

She rolls her eyes. "Honestly?"

He nods.

"It looks like you're in the middle of a one-legged jig with a broom, a crutch, and a dust pan."

He laughs. "That sounds like the opening to an absolutely awful joke." She raises an eyebrow and he sobers slightly. "In all seriousness though, I'm taking steps to make up for being a complete and total arse earlier." He leans the broom against the counter and steps over the dust pan, moving a little closer to her. "You remember me saying that Christmas was not a good time of year for me, aye?"

She takes a step closer as well and by some sort of mutual unspoken agreement, they both end up sitting at the foot of the bed.

"I remember."

She blinks at him, waiting for him to continue, and he lifts his empty wrist from the bed. "Five years ago," he says, "just a few days before Christmas, my fiancé and I were on our way to a holiday party. The roads were dry, I was completely sober, she was singing along to Christmas carols while I drove. I didn't see it until it was too late, maybe if I had been paying more attention, I don't know." He shrugs. "A logging truck ran the red light and broadsided us. I don't know how many times the car rolled, but when it came to a stop, Milah was dead and my left arm was trapped, wrapped in metal and glass…" He trails off. The rest of the story sits, an obvious prop, on the bed between them.

Emma's fingers find his wrist, her hands warm as she pushes up the sleeve and pulls his arm into her lap to trail the scars. "I'm sorry. If I'd known, I never would have dragged that damn tree in here." Her fingers are smooth over the blunt end of his wrist, over shiny skin and jagged lines. "Does this hurt?" she asks, looking up at him. "Me touching you like this?"

He shakes his head. There are some places where the nerve endings are dead, where he has no feeling left at all, and then there are others where they are hypersensitive, sending goosebumps up his arm with her touch, but it's not painful, not anymore, it hasn't been in years. No, now it's just foreign. He's used to his own touch, sure, but with the exception of his doctors, he doesn't think anyone else has touched his ruined skin. He hasn't allowed it.

It doesn't escape him that he's allowing her now – more than allowing it – he's actually enjoying it.

Her gaze drops from his, down to where her fingers are toying with his arm hair, and he's almost surprised when she speaks. "I'm an orphan. I was abandoned on the side of the road at less than a week old. I guess my parents, whoever they were, thought I'd be better off without them. Spent most of my first eight years in group homes, the next eight after that, in and out of foster homes. Started running away at eleven. Started stealing shortly after that. Skipped the system altogether at sixteen. Met a guy at seventeen and thought I might finally have a home, but as usual, he wasn't who he thought I was and I got my heart broken. Nearly went to jail for him. It all happened around this time of year. Combine that with the shitty childhood and I'm not exactly a fan of Christmas either."

It's not too far off from what he might have guessed, the foster child part of it anyway, but he's glad she told him. She doesn't strike him as the type to share such details easily and he links his fingers with hers slowly, allowing their hands to settle over his wrist. "Why the tree then?" he asks, curious.

She sighs and releases a self-deprecating little laugh. "I don't know. I was out there with Eira to fetch more firewood and there was this, _that_ ," she points at the tree beside the couch, "perfect tree just standing there and I thought, why the hell not? Maybe you'd like it?" She squeezes his hand with a wry little smirk. "Obviously, I was very wrong."

He looks at her, then at the tree, and then back at her. "Perhaps it was my initial reaction that was wrong. I am sorry about that, love. Really, it's a wonder you haven't thrown me back out into the snow."

She bumps her shoulder against his. "I thought about it." She hums then, considering something, her fingers still clasped with his and god, it's simple, but it's a level of wonderful that he never dared hope for again.

"Okay, be honest here, you won't offend me; should we keep it or toss it back out into the snow?" she asks, swinging her leg, tapping her heel against the bed as if she just can't wait for his answer.

Liam's words ring clear in his ears – _Don't be afraid to enjoy yourself_ _._ _–_ and he smiles as he releases her hand with a squeeze and reaches for the crutch, making a split second decision that he hopes he doesn't end up regretting. "It really is the perfect tree, and you went to a lot of work getting it in here, seems a shame to just turn around and throw it out, doesn't it, love?"

Her responding grin makes his heart beat just a little bit faster. "Any chance the previous owners left some Christmas decorations hidden away up here?" he asks. "We really ought to dress her up."

If they're going to do the whole Christmas thing, they may as well do it right.

"I think there might be." She stands, looking a little bit like a kid on Christmas; which he supposes isn't an altogether incorrect description. Minus the kid part, of course – the flannel of her shirt pulls tight across her breasts when she reaches up to rub a kink out of her shoulder – she is definitely _not_ a kid.

"I can go check," she offers. "If you're sure?"

She's already in the mudroom doorway, Eira trailing behind her, not wanting to miss any of the excitement, when he answers. "Positive, love," he calls, and then, remembering his earlier intentions, he adds, "have you eaten breakfast?"

She ends up finding a box of old ornaments and lights tucked away and covered in dust in the back of the kitchen cabinets, and they eat a simple breakfast of toast and peanut butter while taking inventory.

The lights are ancient; a dim and faded warm-white, but they work when he plugs them in, and Emma gets started by stringing them on the branches. Most of the ornaments are equally old, knitted or wooden, clearly homemade, and they spend the better part of the morning decorating the tree.

He smiles more than he thought he would, laughs too, and the entire process isn't nearly as painful as he imagined it might be.

It helps that their tree looks nothing at all like the one he used to decorate with Milah. Milah had been allergic to pine and a variety of other evergreens, so they'd always had an artificial tree; some monstrosity of a thing that had been more blue-grey than green. She had preferred the bright, cold white of LEDs, and their ornaments had been an assortment of slightly ostentatious golds, blues, silvers, and whites, a collection of glitter and high shine. The end result had been spectacular, no doubt, but there's something about this proud little tree with its mismatched collection of unintentional hand-me-downs that he likes even more.

Emma also appears to be enjoying herself, and when she tells him that the only other time she's ever decorated a tree, was years ago while working at a department store during the holidays, he decides that going ahead and leaping feet first (foot first in his case?) into the Christmas spirit, is turning out to be a very good thing for both of them.

Even Eira seems to warm to him as the afternoon wears on, content to squeeze into the gap between the couch and coffee table beneath his and Emma's outstretched legs. Of course the dog's presence there could simply be because Emma has decided to make popcorn garland, and like any dog Killian has ever met, Eira would never pass up on the opportunity to gobble up fallen food from the floor.

Picking up _The Princess Bride_ , he continues reading to Emma as she works. He steals popcorn on occasion just to spite her because it's not as if he actually enjoys the taste of the slightly stale, butterless puffs. He does enjoy the smile she hides behind poorly feigned annoyance though. And he certainly doesn't hate the way she elbows him in the side each time he makes a grab for her supplies, slowly inching closer on the couch until he can almost believe that she's intentionally leaning against him. It goes on much like this for over an hour while he reads, and he only agrees to stop eating her limited supply when she threatens to stab him with the needle she's been using to string it all together.

When it comes time to put the garland on the tree, she ends up draping it over his shoulders – like some sort of ridiculous, edible scarf – to keep it from getting tangled while she carefully arranges it, loop by loop, on the branches. He's fairly certain he'll be pulling bits of popcorn out of his sweater for the next couple days, but when it's all said and done, and they step back to admire their efforts, Emma leans against his side with a happy sigh, and he can't bring himself to be anything but equally content.

"I like it," she says with a certain sense of awe, and he has to agree that it's pretty damned wonderful in its rustic simplicity.

"As do I," he admits without reluctance. "I must apologize again, Emma, for my behavior this morning. The tree really was a wonderful idea."

She turns to face him with a small smile and ends up laughing as she pulls a piece of popcorn out of his hair. "You're forgiven," she tells him quietly, her eyes searching his, and it's another one of those slightly terrifying moments where all he wants to do is kiss her. He waits too long though, and the moment is broken when she steps back and tosses the piece of popcorn to Eira, tension lingering as she faces the tree again, no longer leaning against his shoulder.

It's nearly dark outside now, everything inside seeming warmer, brighter, in contrast to the dusky snow-covered world beyond the sturdy log walls of the cabin, despite the fact that at the moment, the only light within, comes from the dying fire in the hearth and the soft twinkle of the lights on the tree.

Killian doesn't think he's ever been at such a loss for words as he is in this moment, standing here in the quiet cabin with nothing but their combined breathing and the howling wind outside to break up the silence. He should say something; crack a joke or suggest they heat up supper, but he seems to be frozen, unsure of how to proceed. There's something here between them. At least he thinks there is; he isn't so out of practice that he's forgotten how to recognize the subtle signs of attraction… But it would appear, however, that a five-year drought has ensured that he's got no bloody clue how to act on them.

Thankfully, Emma comes to his rescue by suggesting that he take a shower before dinner. She doesn't come right out and say that he stinks, but it has been a couple days since he's done more than wipe the important bits with a warm cloth, and he's likely starting to get a bit ripe.

It's tempting to ask her for help, to force their relationship into new territory with what might seem like an obvious move, but beyond showing him how to adjust the fickle temperature dial so that he doesn't scald himself, she offers no other aid and he quickly decides against requesting it.

Stepping into the tub when he only has one real weight-bearing leg is a challenge, but he manages somehow, keeping the shower quick, because while his leg is strong and his balance is good, he doesn't fancy standing around on one leg like some bloody flamingo any longer than necessary.

He quickly determines that it's her shampoo that smells of spiced apple cider, and her body wash that is scented like some sort of chocolatey Christmas confection. It's perhaps a tad girly for his tastes, but he makes no complaint as the rich suds and hot water rinse away stale sweat and ease his lingering aches.

Dressing afterward, he foregoes his underwear, not wanting to wear them when they haven't been washed. It makes his long johns a mite more revealing, but as Emma had stated before; she's already seen all there is to see. No real sense being worried about preserving his modesty now.

He manages his own sock this time and exits the bathroom with the wrap for his ankle thrown over his shoulder.

Supper is the same as last night, but no less delicious, and this time when he helps with the dishes, he barely thinks twice about rolling up his sleeves and getting to work.

There's a small radio and cassette player on the counter next to a basket of tapes, and when she reaches for them while he wipes down the table, for several heart-stopping seconds, he's terrified that she's going to put on Christmas carols. He hasn't listened to _"Silent Night"_ in five long years and he has no intention of starting now, but when she presses the play button and The Cure's _"Plainsong"_ slowly begins to sound in the cabin, he breathes out a heavy sigh of relief that he knows she notices.

There's a little smile on her lips as she passes him on her way into the mudroom, and when she returns, it's with an armful of board games. "We can have that Monopoly rematch if you want, but I've also got Scrabble and Jenga."

He takes a seat and taps the table. "Jenga first. I'll give you a chance to beat me before I destroy you at Scrabble."

She sits the Scrabble box aside on an empty chair and lifts an eyebrow. "Someone's pretty confident."

He grins back at her and waggles his eyebrows. "Oh, darling, you have no idea."

They end up playing three rounds of Jenga. He wins the first, she wins the second, and then during the third, when he's positive her move is going to topple the tower, she somehow manages to remove what should be an impossible block and set it neatly atop the trembling structure with a smug grin. "Beat that!" she taunts and he doesn't even have to graze his next piece to know he's lost the game.

Scrabble is his forte though and none of his earlier confidence is even remotely overstated. He takes it easy on her at first – he doesn't have much choice; his first several draws from the bag produce too many vowels and not nearly enough consonants – but when his luck shifts and he plays the word _'GHERKINS'_ , earning himself 180 points in one turn, Emma just sits there looking at him like he's gone and sprouted a second head.

She's a good sport though and plays out the rest of the game even though she knows she has no chance of beating his score, even though he can tell that she'd like little more than to make him eat his tiles.

He makes it up to her after by offering to read more of _The Princess Bride_ , and when she falls asleep with her head pillowed on his shoulder halfway through the final chapter, and he very reluctantly moves from her side on the couch, he tries to figure out just how exactly he can make Christmas Eve next year a repeat of this one.


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes in the dark, colder than he should be under three thick blankets, to the sound of banging around in the mudroom. Emma is no longer asleep on the couch, the fire is long burnt out, and the crate that usually holds firewood, sits empty beside the bed.

He's about to get up and investigate when there's another loud bang and Emma drops a fresh crate of firewood on the floor so she can use both hands and the weight of her body to close the door against the howling wind outside.

Eira grabs the crate between her teeth and begins hauling it toward the fireplace while Emma works to get out of her snow gear. "Want to get that fire started again?" she calls out, her teeth chattering, and he quickly slips from the bed, grabbing his crutch so he can be of some sort of use.

Outside of the bed and the cocooned warmth of the blankets, the cabin is freezing and he wonders just how long they've been without heat. He was sure he'd thrown enough wood on the fire to last through at least part of the night, but the temperature outside seems to have plummeted and there's a nasty backdraft blowing in from up the chimney.

Emma joins him and it takes them a few minutes to get the fire burning hot enough to counteract the backdraft. She's still shivering slightly when she moves toward the couch, and he catches her arm gently, almost dropping the crutch in his haste.

"Emma, love, sleep in the bed, it's warmer. I'll take the couch for the rest of the night," he offers, already moving to hobble that way.

She stops him with her hand against his chest and a shake of her head. "We can share," she nods toward the bed. "Be even warmer that way."

He swallows hard and looks at the double bed. "You're certain?" It's surely big enough for the both of them, but there won't be a lot of room to spare, especially if Eira decides to join them.

He feels like he should put up more of a protest, but she just rolls her eyes and gives him a gentle shove. "Yes, now get in there. The far side's yours tonight," she says, slipping past him to crawl into the side closest to the fire. She settles facing the flames and he slowly circles the bed to climb in and lie on his back behind her.

He can only see the top of her head in the firelight – she's got the blankets pulled up that far – and when she continues to shiver slightly, he does his very best to fight the urge to reach out and wrap her in his arms.

There's quiet tension for several long minutes in which they both attempt to lie unnaturally still and regulate their breathing, but eventually it's Emma who sighs in frustration and rolls over to face him. "Fuck it," she huffs, "can I just?" she shifts a little closer to him.

He lifts his right arm almost instinctually in a silent invitation and nods. She scoots closer to rest against his side, her head finding his shoulder as she curls her fingers against his clothing covered ribcage. Tentatively he lowers his arm to her waist, wrapping it around her slowly to gauge her reaction; she exhales contently and softens further against him. "Thanks," she mumbles, no longer shivering.

"You're welcome, love," he responds, even though he feels a lot like he should be the one thanking her. The last couple days have been bizarre enough on their own, but this? This is just beyond surreal. He hasn't shared a bed with, or held a woman since Milah, hasn't wanted to, hasn't thought he would ever move on from her, but now, lying here with a softly breathing Emma in his arms, he's starting to believe that he might just be able to. Part of him wants it to feel like a betrayal, but it doesn't, it just feels right, and maybe Liam was right about that as well; Milah would surely want him to be happy.

He doesn't sleep for a long while, content to just enjoy such a simple pleasure, happy to savour the way Emma curls further into him in her sleep. She seeks out his empty wrist at one point, pulling it across his body to rest with her hand over his stomach, one of her legs settling between his, and it might all be faintly arousing if it didn't have him on the verge of some seriously profound tears. He feels a little like his heart is waking up and shaking off layers of snow and ice after a five year hibernation, like it's really beating again for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, and if he's getting less poetic, or poetic in a comical sense, he feels like the Grinch realizing that _maybe Christmas… perhaps… means a little bit more_.

He bites back a chuckle, curling his fingers over Emma's hip as she nuzzles against his shoulder, his heart pounding and his breath catching with the feel of it.

 _And what happened then…?_

 _Well… in Who-ville they say, that Killian's small heart grew three sizes that day!_

* * *

The cabin is brighter through his closed eyelids when he wakes, but the mattress is empty beside him and all sense of peace evaporates as he sits up, looking for Emma and wondering if it wasn't all just a cruel dream.

She's crouched next to the fireplace, adding more wood and he breathes a sigh of relief when she smiles up at him. He moves to get up, but she shakes her head. "Stay there."

He does, watching as she piles one more log onto the roaring fire, stops to rub the sleeping husky's ears, and then steps back toward the bed, quickly climbing in and burrowing under the covers. She hesitates for a brief moment, and then moves toward him again, attempting to almost wrestle him back down beneath the covers. "It stopped snowing, but it's gotta be like a billion degrees below freezing out there. You're warm, the bed is warm; I don't see any reason why we shouldn't just spend the day in here."

He raises an eyebrow at her choice of words and what they suggest, before settling back down on his side to face her. Truthfully he doesn't see much issue with a day spent in bed either, but she's easy to tease and he enjoys the banter, so he waggles his eyebrows and smirks at her. "Holding me hostage, are you, love?"

She blushes lightly and blindly pinches the skin over his ribs beneath the blankets. "Not like it's taking much effort on my part. I mean you can hardly walk and don't seem to be in any great hurry to leave." She grins and pokes him in the centre of his chest. "Besides, you're the one who walked who knows how many miles to fall down at my door."

It gives him an opening he can't resist, cannot pass by, not if he wants to take a chance here, not if he wants to see what _'_ _things going well_ _'_ might look like. And it may well be the cheesiest (dorkiest) thing he's even done, but somehow he gets the feeling she'll appreciate it.

"Emma?" he whispers, his fingers closing around hers where they still rest against his chest.

She looks at him expectantly, and he sees the same fear in her eyes that he expects she sees in his. It's what pushes his next words past his lips. "But I would walk five hundred miles…"

She seems confused for half a second before recognition lights up her eyes and she tries to bite back a smile as she worries her lower lip between her teeth.

"And I would walk five hundred more…"

She shifts a little closer, her gaze dropping briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes as she waits for him to continue.

"Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles..." he whispers as her forehead meets his softly, her nose bumping his.

They share a breath, she grins, and then finishes for him. "To fall down at my door?"

"Aye, Emma," he breathes into the space between them, and just when he doesn't think he can wait any longer, she closes the distance and kisses him.

It's soft and sweet and somehow nothing like what he imagined it might be. There's still a hint of hesitation – fear, he's sure – on both their parts, but each time they withdraw to suck in a shaky breath of shared air, they come back together stronger than before until he's certain that he would _actually_ walk a thousand miles to be by her side.

Emma presses against him, pushing him to his back as she deepens the kiss, her mouth open, her tongue hot, curling with his. He grasps at the fabric of her shirt over her hip, needing something to hold onto, to ground himself, and just as he suspects that she's about to straddle his hips, Eira jumps up onto the bed and starts yapping and yodeling in what he assumes is some sort of vehement protest.

Emma tenses and her lips break from his as she flops onto her back next to him with a groan.

He's never been so simultaneously annoyed and thankful to be cock-blocked in his life, and he has a hard time deciding which emotion is the stronger of the two while Emma tries in vain to shush the boisterous husky.

She ends up leaving the bed to drag the dog outside, and he's still lying there, staring at whorls in the wood on the ceiling when she returns. The bed dips slightly with her weight and he turns to face her.

"Sorry about that," she apologizes, laughing, hovering at the edge of the bed as he sits up and reaches for her hand.

"It's all right, love. Probably for the best, actually." She frowns and he moves to quickly reassure her, lifting her hand to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. "It's not that I don't want to take things further, it's just," he sighs, "it's been a long five years since I last…" he trails off and watches as her eyes widen slightly with understanding.

"You want to take things slow," she surmises.

He nods, already sensing her withdrawing, her walls going up, and he shuffles across the bed as he pulls her closer for another kiss, holding nothing back and only parting when they're both near breathless. "When I say _slow_ , love, by no means do I mean glacial. I simply meant that I do not want to jump straight from first kiss to sex in a matter of minutes. I don't imagine that would end well for either of us, and I know we've only known each other for a few days, but I'm in this, whatever it may be, for the long haul, all right?"

She nods after a moment, and her walls don't exactly crumble back down, but they also don't climb any higher, so he decides to take that as a win.

He grabs the copy of _The Princess Bride_ from the nightstand and pats the mattress next to him. "Come back to bed and I'll finish reading this to you," he offers, and after letting Eira back inside, switching on the Christmas tree lights, and fetching them both a mug of hot cocoa, she snuggles back against his side.

She stays awake this time, fingers at first playing over his wrist as he reads, slowly moving up his arm and over his shoulder. It's soothing to start, her touch through the cotton of his Henley, but when her fingers drop into the unbuttoned V at the neck of the shirt to twist with his chest hair, it quickly becomes one hell of a distraction.

When the last paragraph on the last page stares up at him, he reads it as quickly as possible because at this point he suspects she isn't really listening. _"I'm not trying to make this a downer, understand. I mean, I really do think that love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all."_

He'd take a moment to reflect on the truth of that statement, but Emma seems to have other ideas, and his body doesn't exactly protest when she ducks her head under his jaw and drags her lips over his pulse point. It's an instant reaction and he feels like a rubber band pulled taut as his blood rushes south to harden his cock.

He pulls her up, his hand tangled in her hair to give her a warning with what is supposed to be a stern look on his face, but her cheeks are flushed and she's grinning at him like she _knows_ she's being naughty, and he can't bring himself to do anything but kiss her.

"Bloody hell, darling," he whispers against her lips, his words mumbled, not exactly clear, but she's insistent and addictive and he's quickly learning that he's got little self-control where she's concerned. He's been wandering the desert for years, a man dying of thirst, and she's the veritable oasis on his horizon.

She's aggressive; he doesn't need to have known her long to ascertain that she's the sort of woman to go after what she wants, no holds barred, and at the moment, it seems that _he_ is the thing she wants. She slides gracefully as her namesake into his lap, settling warm and solid with her hips over his, and when her breath hitches and she performs some wicked little rock of her hips, clothed friction burns dangerously over the length of his erection.

He breaks the kiss with a curse, his fingers tight on her hip to hold her still as his head drops back against the headboard and he looks at her, barely resisting the urge to grind up against her. The only thing that solidifies his resolve is the knowledge that him doing so would likely result in him coming in his pants like some bloody too-eager-teen, and at well over thirty years old, he has no desire to make such a mess, especially when he doesn't have much in the way of options for a change of attire.

There's another reason, too; his original one for wanting to hold off on certain acts of intimacy, and as her frown deepens and he can practically see her walls begin to rise at his perceived rejection, he figures he'd better explain it.

Taking a deep breath, he relaxes his grip on her side, slowly trailing his fingers up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her lower lip to settle over her dimpled chin. "I want you, Emma," he reassures her with a smile, "that much should be fairly obvious."

She snorts indelicately and thankfully rolls her eyes instead of her hips. "But?" she prompts.

"I would prefer to wait until tomorrow," he tells her slowly, trying to ignore the way her fingers fist in the fabric of his shirt, frustration and confusion clear and present on her pretty face.

"What difference is one day going to make?" She tries to move away from him, slip from his lap, but he only lets her back up to a slightly safer position on his thighs before wrapping his ruined arm around her waist and halting her.

"I know it seems ridiculous, love, but my main reasoning is that tomorrow will no longer be Christmas."

"Not Christmas?" she repeats with a deeper frown, and he clearly needs to explain himself better.

"Aye, Christmas will be past tomorrow. If we were to consummate whatever this is today, there'd be…" he trails off, trying to find the right words to explain himself. "I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I don't want this just to be a product of our shared loneliness, of our distaste for Christmas. I want more than that. I want to get to know you, and I want you to know me as more than the dashing idiot who fell down at your door, all right? Give us today to just talk, and then tomorrow if you still want me, you can have me in as many ways as your heart desires."

Indecision flickers with something looking a lot like fear on her face before determination finally takes over and she nods. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

She looks set for a particularly grueling interview, and he leans forward to softly kiss the tight frown from her lips. "This isn't an awkward game of twenty questions, love. It's not a test where you pass or fail. It's just a conversation. How about we start by finding some breakfast?"

She agrees, climbing from the bed, but there's still tension in her shoulders as the morning wears on, and he tries to ease it by asking mundane questions about Eira and how she got into dog-sledding and hunting. He tells her about Liam, how his older brother raised him after their father abandoned them. He's an orphan too, he was just lucky enough that Liam was old enough and mature enough to take him in and be the father-figure he'd needed.

He talks about sailing, how it's his passion in the warmer months, when the snow melts and grass takes over the mountainside, and he doesn't pressure her into bringing up anything of great significance, doesn't ask her to elaborate on her previous mention of heartbreak.

He's mostly content just to learn how she likes her coffee and that she had to work three part-time jobs to put herself through university and obtain a degree in criminology and criminal justice. He learns that the man in the photo on her dresser is her co-worker, David, and that the petite woman with the pixie cut is his wife, Mary Margaret. She tells him that the little lad, Leo, is their son, and that every year for the past four years, she's turned down their repeated invitations for her to spend Christmas with them because as much as she loves the three of them, it's too hard for her to watch the little boy be showered with love and presents – to experience the sort of Christmas she only ever dreamed of as a kid.

They make dinner together, spaghetti and venison meatballs, and she tells him how she used to be a disaster in the kitchen; could hardly make a grilled cheese without burning it to a crisp. Turns out most people aren't a fan of teaching their foster kids how to cook – not that she was really in any place long enough to learn. Once she was on her own, she had no choice but to figure it out as quickly as possible; when you're broke and trying to put yourself through school, burning food and throwing it out because you suck at cooking isn't really an option.

She ends up in front of him on the couch after supper. He sits facing the tree with his injured leg stretched along the length of the chesterfield, his left foot resting on the floor as she settles between his thighs and leans back against his chest. Her hair tickles his nose, catching in his beard, and he breathes in the scent of her as some old Van Morrison cassette plays quietly on the counter beside them.

Her fingers lift his wrist to her chest, cradling it against her breasts, and though the action seems almost entirely innocent, he wonders if he still shouldn't remind her of their earlier agreement.

She surprises him by speaking first though, quiet and with clear hesitation. "His name was Neal."

He places a kiss against her hair and waits for her to continue.

"I stole his car, which turns out, he had already stolen. He was sleeping in the backseat." She laughs, but it's a dry, humorless thing. "We hit it off almost instantly. The next few months were the best of my life that far. Then his past caught up to him. Our plans to settle in Tallahassee quickly changed to fleeing to Canada. He told me we could start a new life there, we just needed money. He had these stolen watches to fence, just needed me to get them out of a locker at this train station. That went off without a hitch, and all that was left was for him to meet the buyer. He gave me one of the watches, and a time and place to meet him at later, only he didn't show up, a cop did instead."

He hugs her a little bit closer, his fingers linking with hers over her stomach. "You said you almost went to jail for him. What happened?"

Emma sighs and lifts their joined hands up to tuck against her chin; an action of pensive self-comfort that he knows well from his own childhood. "My lawyer happened; I was only seventeen, still a minor. She convinced me to turn on Neal; give up the details of his plans to run to Canada and share the extent of our relationship. He was twenty-four; it was technically statutory rape… It was a disaster, the trial was a nightmare, but my lawyer, Regina, was ruthless. Neal went away for the theft and Regina made sure that the stat-rape charges stuck as well. I went free with nothing but community service. Regina helped me out until I finished my GED… and well, you know the rest."

"Bloody hell, love," he whispers, "I…" he doesn't know what to say. Thoughts of beating a faceless man to a bloody pulp for what he did to her arrive first, followed quickly by the overwhelming desire to look up her lawyer and send the woman an extravagant gift basket. Emma shifts in his arms enough to face him though, and makes up his mind for him by silencing him with a kiss.

It's little more than the press of her lips against his, but when she pulls back, she's smiling. "You don't have to say anything," she assures him with a kiss to his chin. "It's a part of who I am, but it's in the past and I try to keep it that way."

Understandably so, he thinks, helping her adjust to the new position with her head against his chest and her arm around his waist. "Thank you for telling me though, love, for trusting me with that."

She shrugs one shoulder and burrows against the soft wool of his sweater. "You should be; outside of Regina and that courtroom, I can count on one hand the number of people I've told that to."

He's struck again by a sense of awe regarding this woman and everything he's learned about her in the last twelve hours alone. She's strong and stubborn and has already overcome more in one lifetime than anyone should have to face in several. She might be cold at a glance, but behind those walls of hers, he gets the sense that she feels things with a depth that would put the Mariana Trench to shame.

With a graceful little wiggle, she blindly reaches behind her to grab the earlier-selected novel from the coffee table, slapping the paperback playfully against his chest. "Okay, enough with the sentimental shit," she mumbles. "Read me another story."

He laughs and picks up her copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_. "Why? So you can fall asleep halfway through the first chapter again?" he teases.

He thinks she might pinch him like she seems so fond of doing, but it's more of a tickle instead and he concedes defeat and opens the book before they both end up on the floor.

He's three pages into the third chapter, reading the postmark on Harry's letter from Hogwarts, when Emma stops laughing at his ridiculous impressions of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Another two pages, and she's sound asleep against his chest.

He doesn't want to wake her and move to the bed; not yet. If he had use of both ankles, he might simply carry her the short distance to the mattress, but as it is, he's currently incapacitated and sees very little problem with it. Closing the book, he reaches over the back of the couch to sit it on the kitchen counter before shifting further down into the cushions with her.

His entire body will likely protest the act in the morning, but right now, with Emma blanketing him and the Christmas tree softly illuminating the cabin, he decides there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Eira moves into the space between the couch and coffee table with a contented sigh, apparently no longer protesting his proximity to her owner. He drops his arm off the side of the couch and pats the husky on the head with the blunt end of his wrist. There's a soft whine, followed by a ticklish lick, and within minutes, Eira's snoring right alongside Emma.

He looks at the tree again and takes a deep breath as Emma hums happily in her sleep.

He's never really been one to believe in Christmas miracles, even less so during the past five years for obvious reason, but now, in this moment, as he blinks back a single tear of pure, unrestrained joy, and looks up at the slightly crooked glass angel atop the tree; he thanks any god who is willing to listen, for sending him tumbling down the bloody mountain in what is quickly turning out to be the best unfortunate event of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Final chapter here, my loves! The smutty conclusion I'm sure you've all been waiting for. ;) Enjoy and have a very Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!

* * *

Sometime before dawn, when his back aches from the unnatural angle of sleeping on the couch and his arm tingles with pins and needles from Emma's weight, he wakes her so that they can both move to the comfort of the bed. He unplugs the Christmas tree, she throws more wood on the fire, and he vaguely remembers ditching both his Henley and sweater at her insistence before joining her again in slumber.

Upon waking, her reasoning for his clothing choice (or lack thereof) is abundantly clear.

She's on her side next to him, her head propped up in her left hand while her right traces patterns through his chest hair. "It's not Christmas anymore," she states, her expectations as clear as the excitement on her face, and _oh hell_ , if he'd thought he'd seen her _'kid on Christmas morning'_ face the other day, he was clearly mistaken, because it was nothing compared to the grin she sports now.

He shakes his head and laughs, wondering just what he's gotten himself into. "Aye, love. I suppose Christmas is over now, isn't it?" He moves to kiss her good morning and she meets him half way, eager in her affections, and frustrated when he pulls away.

"Slow down a moment, love. We've a few things we need to discuss."

Her fingers inch mischievously lower until he wraps them in his own, putting a stop her exploration. "Condoms," he says. She's hardly beating around the bush here; no reason for him to not come right out and say it. "Do you have condoms somewhere up here?"

She shakes her head and his stomach sinks, but she quickly reaches over to the bedside table and opens the drawer to show him a half empty sleeve of birth control pills. "I've got that taken care of. I'm clean, and I assume if it's been…"

"Five years," he finishes for her. "Aye, you've nothing to worry about on my end."

She wriggles her fingers in his grasp and taps his chest. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"In the interest of full disclosure?" he quips with more bravado than he feels.

She nods, clearly restless, ready to get on with it, but he takes a second to consider his approach. "It's been _five_ years, Emma," he stresses as she manages to free her hand from his grasp. He grabs it again and squeezes it until she meets his eyes. "Allow me to take care of you first, because once I'm inside you, love, I'm afraid I'm not going to last all that long."

"Okay," she agrees, humming, not even remotely fazed. She mostly just seems intent on finding a way to touch him again.

Her free hand sneaks beneath the blankets to the waistband of his long johns and he growls out a warning, low and deep in his throat. "Bloody hell, darling. That means you're to lie back and keep your hands to yourself."

She flops obediently to her back and glares up at him. "That doesn't sound like very much fun," she pouts. "I want to touch you."

He sits up and reaches for the bottom button of her flannel. "You can touch me later, love," he promises, "and _if_ , when I'm done with you, you've failed to have any _fun_ , you've my permission to toss my arse back out into the snow."

Laughing, she sits up quickly, derailing his progress on her buttons. "Speaking of snow," she says, sliding out of the bed, "I'm just gonna stick Eira outside so we don't have any interruptions."

She's back almost before he processes her absence, throwing a few more logs on the fire before ignoring her buttons altogether and simply pulling the flannel right over her head. She's only wearing a thin white tank top beneath it, clearly not having bothered with a bra, and he holds out his hand to her as she climbs back onto the mattress.

"You're an impatient one, aren't you, lass?"

Emma huffs as he slowly works one strap off her shoulder between kisses. "I'm not used to men resisting me," she admits, nipping at his bottom lip when he takes too long pushing the matching strap from her other shoulder.

"I'm not resisting you, love; I'm appreciating you."

There's a group of freckles on her left shoulder that he finds particularly enthralling and he drops his lips to her skin to taste her there, moving up her neck to a spot behind her ear that has her rolling towards him and gritting her teeth as she clutches at his bicep.

"Any chance you could appreciate a little faster? Can we just save this whole slow exploration for another time? I mean, it's not like there's much else to do up here and you-"

He pulls down the fabric of her shirt, taking a second to memorize flush and freckles before capturing a dusky pink nipple between his lips and swirling his tongue to effectively silence her.

He wants to take his time cataloguing every little scar and freckle, commit to memory the map of her skin, but she's right; they have an abundance of time up here, so he speeds up enough to keep her content, never lingering anywhere for too long as he watches her lift the shirt from her top half while he works to bare her bottom.

There's a bit of a learning curve for him here; he's never made love to a woman without the use of both hands, and despite her insistence that he hurry up, she's surprisingly patient with him when it takes a near laughable amount of time to pull the tight cotton from her legs. His sprained ankle is a bit of a hindrance too, but when he finally has her spread out naked beside him on the bed, he quickly forgets all about it.

She's all long limbs and pale, freckled skin, blonde-haired perfection against pastel flannel sheets – his angel, his saviour, his Christmas miracle – and there's an ache in his chest that matches the one in his cock as he takes her in. "Gods, love," he bends and kisses the flat expanse of her stomach as he shuffles down the bed, "you're beyond beautiful."

Blush rises from the tops of her breasts to the apples of her cheeks, and she curls long fingers in his hair, seemingly torn between urging him lower and pulling him back up for a kiss. He nuzzles against her stomach again, dipping his tongue into the hollow of her belly button, and she whispers his name as she spreads her legs; a quiet plea.

He heeds it; lowering his head to taste her, wet heat, slick like honey on his tongue as her hips surge upward and her thighs strain on either side of his head. Swirling his tongue over her clit, he holds her steady with his arm over her hips as he drags his thumb through her arousal, pressing in, just teasing, before withdrawing.

"Killian, come on," she whines, her stomach quivering beneath his wrist.

"What do you need, love? This?" He presses his tongue inside her, groaning as he tastes her. "Or this?" He moves to suck on her clit instead, and her hips jump.

"That," she instructs with a gasp, "and your fingers."

He eases his middle finger into her, followed quickly by his ring finger, resting his forehead against her stomach while he struggles not to press his erection to the mattress and simply rut to completion.

Fucking hell, she's hot and tight; slick around his fingers. All he can think about is what she'll feel like on his cock, and he's never been as thankful for the distraction of pain as he is in the moment when she pulls hard on his hair and commands him to "move your fingers."

He does, curling them, experimenting until he finds an angle that has her thighs shaking and her walls tightening. He looks up, over the swell of her breasts and the jut of her rosy nipples to watch her face. Pleasure sets her mouth open, her lips parted as her breathing quickens. Her eyes open and quickly lock with his, the green of them slightly glazed, twinkling with the reflection of the lights from the Christmas tree. He doesn't remember her plugging them back in, but he's glad she did. The soft light plays over her body, caressing her curves in what he wishes were an extension of his touch.

She's like some sort of sinful angel come to earth and he lifts his head to tell her as much. "Gods, love, you're a sight not fit for the likes of me." He kisses her hipbone, drags his beard over the thin skin there. "You're bloody gorgeous."

Her hips lift and she breathes out in exasperation. "Fuck, Killian. Shut up and use your mouth again."

He takes his time moving back to where she wants him, his fingers still stroking her slowly as he kisses his way along the line of her hipbone to the crease of her thigh. He can feel her femoral artery beating there, and he presses the flat of his tongue to the strong thrum of her pulse for several beats before moving onward.

Nuzzling against her dark blonde curls, he breathes in her scent, heady arousal that makes his cock throb almost painfully with his desire for her. It's enough to spur him back into action; his tongue flicking at her clit as he ups the rhythm with his fingers.

It doesn't take long; he's held her on the edge for long enough now, that the slightest push has her hips lifting and her hands tightening in his hair as some sort of breathy half-sob that could be his name passes her lips. She clenches hard around his fingers, her walls fluttering as he simply presses his tongue to her twitching bundle of nerves.

He wants to look up at her, watch her face as her orgasm rolls in waves through her body, but her grip on his hair is so tight that he fears any sudden movement on his part might leave him bald in places, so instead he focuses on prolonging her pleasure, slowing his movements to help her ride it out until her fingers loosen in his locks and she pants, "enough, enough, too much," trying to urge him upward and away from her oversensitive flesh.

Settling his chin next to her belly button, he withdraws his fingers from her heat, reaching up to circle one nipple, and then the other, with the evidence of her pleasure. He shuffles further up, intending to lick his fingers clean while she watches, but she grabs his hand, apparently reading his intention, and turns his whole world upside-down by bringing his digits to her lips instead. Her mouth is hot and inviting as she sucks and swirls her tongue to taste herself on his fingers with a wicked gleam in her eyes. It's an action suggestive of something else he'd very much like to experience with her in the future, and it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses (plus a hastily conjured image of Liam in bloomers) to stop himself from coming right then and there.

"Bloody hell, love," he whispers in awe as she releases his fingers with a wet pop.

They shift to lie facing each other, and after sucking both of her nipples clean; he lowers his head to the pillow to catch his breath, feeling a little ridiculously like he's just run a marathon.

"Gonna toss me out in the snow?" he asks once he's managed to gather his wits just a little bit.

She shakes her head and grins at him, her fingers trailing over his shoulder to his chest. "Nah, I think I'll keep you."

It's an interesting choice of words, but he takes no issue with their connotations. "I'm all yours, love," he says as she pushes him to his back.

She sits up to kneel next to him, her breasts swaying enticingly, and he wants to reach for them, touch her again, but she bends to kiss him. Sweet and sultry, it shakes him to his core.

"To do with what I please?" she asks against his lips, one hand soothing through his hair, massaging his abused scalp, while the other maps his torso, working its way toward the elastic of his long johns.

He nods, anticipation burning through his veins. "Whatever you desire, Emma… though if I might make a request?"

She kisses and sucks her way down his neck, nips at his collarbone, and rubs her nose back and forth in his chest hair before meeting his eyes again. "You may."

He sits up slightly against the pillows. "Help rid me of this offending garment," he nods toward his long johns, "and then if you would, take a seat on my lap."

She squints at him suspiciously as her fingers dip below the waistband. "You're not going to make some sort of awful Santa joke, are you?"

He laughs and it's a little bit strangled because she's kissing his stomach now and working the fabric lower. "Wouldn't dream of it," he bites out.

Lifting the fabric, she draws it carefully over his erection, and he thinks she might continue working the long johns down his legs, but she pauses and he watches as a smiles spreads across her face.

"You're bigger than I expected," she tells him, biting her lip as her eyes flicker back and forth between his face and his cock. For a moment he wonders if she isn't just saying it to stroke his ego, but then he remembers the state he was in when she found him and bites back a wry chuckle.

"Aye, well, flaccid and half frozen while unconscious is hardly a fit state for comparison, love."

"Apparently not," she laughs, quickly removing his pants and tossing them aside.

He offers his hand to balance her as she moves to straddle his thighs, and then, tugging her closer, he wraps his left arm around her back, drawing her forward until his cock is pressed tight between their stomachs as he kisses her.

Wiggling her fingers between them, she shifts back enough to grasp his length firmly. She draws her thumb over the head, circling, spreading moisture, and he grunts into her mouth, breaking the kiss as his balls draw up tight. "Fuck, Emma, explore later, right now I just need to be inside you."

They both shift simultaneously, surprisingly in sync considering that they've never done this before and that he's more than a little rusty. She releases his hand to position herself over him, sliding slowly back and forth to coat his length in the slickness of her arousal before stilling. She takes his hand again, linking their fingers together, and he fights the nearly blinding urge to drive up into her when she meets his eyes.

"You sure about this?" she asks, and part of him wants to laugh at the question because surely they've already passed the point of no return here, and another, large part of him, wonders if maybe that shouldn't be his line, but she's got this lovely little smirk tugging at her lips and it occurs to him that she's obviously waiting for some sort of response.

"Aye, love," he nods, squeezing her hand, "I am, if you are?"

She answers by sinking down on him slowly, taking him in, wet heat, heaven, enveloping his cock, inch by inch until she settles, the rooms spins, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

Bending to reach his lips, she flexes her hips and takes him in deeper with a happy little sigh, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders to curtain their faces and tickle his chest. She doesn't move just yet, giving them both a moment to adjust, and he's thankful for it as he centers himself, focusing as much on the green of her eyes and the slim strength of her hand in his own, as he does on the sensation of being inside her.

After a moment, she sits back up slightly, clenching around him with a wicked little grin as she brings his fingers to her breast, his empty wrist to her waist, and starts moving. And god, she's a hell of a sight with the Christmas tree behind her. He'd love nothing more than to keep his eyes open to watch her, but his heart pounds faster and somehow, with each breathtaking rock of her hips, he loses and finds himself at the same time, her fingers teasing over his stomach, and then his thighs, as she changes the angle just enough to reach behind her.

His eyes close of their own accord and he drops his fingers from where they toy with her nipple, down to her hip to aid her movements, drowning in sensation as he tries to stave off the inevitable for a little while longer.

That works until he hears her gasp, until he feels her tighten around him, the telltale flutter of her walls prompting him to open his eyes to the sight of her touching herself, her fingers busy over her clit as the previously steady rhythm of her hips grows sloppy.

It's almost enough to set him off and he curses, bending his knees to thrust up into her, sprained ankle be damned. "Tell me you're close, love," he nearly pleads, his impending release taut like a bowstring in his belly, a coil about ready to snap.

"Almost," she pants, pressing against his chest to add force to their combined thrusts, the slow pace of just moments earlier quickly turning frantic. "Just-" she says, and he tilts his hips slightly, clearly finding a better angle because she breathes out an almost startled "oh, there," and then she's collapsing to his chest, coming with a drawn-out, muffled, "fuuuuck" of a whine.

It does him in; her orgasm triggering his, and all he can do is hold on to her, his fingers probably bruising her hip as he spills his seed, and what feels like his very soul, into her. And hell, it's clichéd, but he's pretty bloody certain he sees stars. Logically he could write it off as the lights from the Christmas tree, or synapses firing, electrical impulses in his brain, but there isn't much room in his head for logic when he feels on the verge of blacking out from coming so hard.

He feels a little like he's lost control of his own body; his nerves firing blanks, messages with no content, because somewhere, something is telling him to open his eyes and ease his grip at her waist, but he has no idea if he's succeeded or not when it's all he can do to keep breathing.

Slowly his faculties come back to him and he opens his eyes to see Emma still slumped against his chest, her chin resting atop her hand as she watches him.

"That was…" he breathes, unable to locate an appropriate adjective anywhere in his usually expansive vernacular.

She laughs and his softening length slips out of her, his release following, hot and slick, smearing across both their skin as she stretches languidly above him. "It sure was," she agrees before kissing him, an almost tentative thing that says far more than any words he suspects either of them could conjure at the moment.

She rolls off of him after a moment and he misses the weight of her almost instantly, some fanciful part of him wishing she could have stayed there forever. She doesn't move far though, and doesn't seem to be overly concerned with keeping the sheets clean, because she reaches down to pull the blankets up before curling into his side with a yawn. He echoes it, his jaw cracking as he wraps an arm around her and hugs her closer.

Some part of him thinks the lack of pillow talk should be awkward, but somehow it's not, and he finds himself perfectly content to just snuggle naked with her beneath the blankets, sated and a little bit sleepy, fingers brushing, sharing occasional touches and soft kisses as they bask in the warmth of the small cabin.

Time passes, but he's not sure how much or how fast until Emma's stomach growls and she sighs. "I'm hungry, but I don't want to move," she complains, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck.

"I know the feeling, love," he agrees. "I've spent the last I don't know how many minutes trying to summon the energy to do something more than lie here and kiss you."

She grins and kisses him again. "You don't hear me complaining, do you?"

"Just your stomach," he teases, and she seems to be on the verge of some sort of witty retort when there's a scratch and a god-awful howl at the door.

"And that'll be Eira wanting in," she groans, flipping back the blankets as she pulls out of his arms. "Go run us a bath while I let her in and find something for breakfast. Turn the water up as hot as it goes, the tank usually starts to run out about half way through filling the tub, but the temperature will balance out by the time it's full."

"Anything else, my dear?" She's bossy and he can already see himself getting used to it.

She lifts an eyebrow at the endearment and grabs a robe from the dresser, shrugging into it. "Make it a bubble bath?"

It's a request he's only too happy to comply with, hobbling naked with his crutch to the bathroom to turn on the tap. He finds bubble bath in the linen closet; spiced vanilla, and adds it to the water, watching rich suds froth forth for a moment before he turns toward the mirror. The cut above his eye is healing, the bruising fading, but there's something else off about his appearance and it takes him a moment to figure out exactly what it is.

 _He's smiling._

 _Bloody hell._

He lifts his hand to scratch at his beard, covering his mouth, but the smile is still there in the lines around his eyes; the blue of his irises brighter, his reflection happier, than he can recall in years.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to discern the cause.

Especially when the cause presses her naked self to his back, her face appearing in the mirror over his shoulder as she wraps her arms around his waist, fingers dragging through his chest hair. She kisses his neck and then lifts her eyes to meet his in the mirror. The thoughtful little grin on her lips has him turning to face her, needing to kiss her.

She tastes of hot cocoa, and it's only then that he notices the tray balanced carefully on a stool next to the tub. An extra large mug (he assumes they'll be sharing) sits next to a plate of cookies and banana bread.

"That's an awful lot of sugar for breakfast," he points out, even as he tastes the chocolate on her lips again.

"We can work if off later," she offers, her meaning clear. "Now get in the tub."

He removes the wrap from his ankle first, temporarily distracted when she pulls the curtains aside, not by the view outdoors, but by the way too-bright sunlight silhouettes her frame against the frosted glass when she bends to shut off the water.

There's a half-hearted scolding about putting weight on his ankle, followed by several more kisses before they both finally end up in the steaming tub, her back pressed to his front and his arm around her waist as they pass the mug off cocoa back and forth.

She's quiet, seemingly lost in thought, and he allows his mind to wander as well, his sights torn between the sparking snow-covered world outside, and the tops of her breasts peeking through the bubbles. He divides his attention between them, content to just hold her, to breathe in the scent of her hair, and be free for once from the near omnipresent anxiety that he usually experiences at this time of year.

She's a balm for his battered heart and he wants to ask her if they can do it all again next year (minus the falling down the mountain part, of course), but he's not daft enough to go and overwhelm her with plans for the distant and uncertain future, so he keeps his mouth shut and buries his nose in her hair instead, wondering if there's some way he could bring up spending New Year's together.

With a contemplative little sigh, she leans back against him more fully. "It's not Christmas anymore," she says in an echo of her earlier words.

It's not a question this time either, but he answers all the same. "No, it's not."

Finding his wrist below the water, she lifts it to cradle his arm between her breasts. Wiping the bubbles away from the blunt end, she bows her head and presses a kiss to the aborted tendons on the underside.

"Merry not Christmas, Killian," she whispers, almost a question, and he can feel the slight upward curve of her lips on his skin.

An answering smile blooms on his face and he presses it into her hair. "Aye, love," he answers. "Merry not Christmas, Emma."


End file.
